Page 77 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘What is it?’ she asked, puzzled.
Something so important to me that it would never have ended up in a mishmash of meaningless things.
‘That’s the stone I cut my wrist on when I was a child. My father kept it and gave it to me later. It’s still got my blood on it.’
Zoe, eyeing me critically.
‘It’s thanks to this stone that I’m able to love you,’ I explained.
‘It’s more than just a stone then.’
‘Yes. It’ll bring you luck for Cornwall and remind you what you mean to me.’
It fulfilled its purpose. Only three days ago she messaged me, saying she’d been accepted to go to Cornwall.It worked!How did I not pick up on that? How could I forget that I’d given her the stone? I ought to have realised when I was tidying up Dad’s study and found the wooden box. Or, if not then, when Zoe messaged me. I stare down the steps to the hole that the stone has made in the snow.
Two stones. Blood on both. But only one is mine, the one I gave to Zoe. I feel giddy, like when Nathalie and Steffen Fester were arguing earlier on.Two years ago, for example. In 2015, Steffen. Do you remember what happened?Lenia fell and knocked out her front teeth. And who looked after her? Who comforted her, fed her?
In 2015, my car accident, my father nursing me back to health. In 2012, my existential crisis, our trip through France. In 2010, Eva and Nico disappearing from Berlin, and me in despair every day. In 2009, Eva falling in love with Nico, breaking my heart. In 2006, I’m thirteen and an adolescent nightmare.
I was always there when Lenia needed me. There was nothing more important in my life.
2015. 2012. 2010. 2009. 2006. You were always there when I needed you. Because there was nothing more important in your life.
Shaking, I get to my feet and go down the steps to where the stone landed in the snow. I just stand there, gazing at it.
Although they can’t say for sure, the forensics team believe the killer used a knife with a very blunt blade, Ludwig says again inside my head.
Or it wasn’t a knife at all, I answer him silently.
Decisions, my Beetle. . .
Berlin, 21 February 2018
Dear Dad,
As Ludwig is keeping you updated, you’ll know I was in Schergel and what happened to me there. All the same, I’d like to explain my decision to you, and find myself– as you’re bound to recognise– quoting Kant: ‘Act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.’ I couldn’t just make the stone disappear; it had to be examined. Because ten murders are not a scratched moped. And even if I can’t undo what’s happened, it’s still my duty to provide clarity to the victims’ families. Michelle, who for years has merely been trying to make it from one day to the next. Rainer Meller, who was effectively driven crazy by his theories about Larissa’s death. Saskia E.’s father, who’s been appearing in public as an attempt at therapy. And all the other parents and relatives who till now have had to deal with uncertainty as well as their loss. I know myself how bad that is, albeit in a very different way. So, yes, I did it for me too. To give me certainty. I gave the police the stone in Schergel, explaining my theory and requesting they pass it on to the appropriate authority for examination. The results came in the second week of January: they’d found traces of DNA that could clearly be attributed to the dead girls. I can’t say it surprised me, after I’d worked out that no murders had taken place in those years when I’d been a demanding, needy daughter. I still harboured hope until the end. So much so that, after my telephone conversation with Inspector Brandner, who told me about the result of the DNA analysis, I immediately called Jakob to ask him to drive me to the hospital. Systems overload, a nervous breakdown. I spent two weeks as an inpatient, and was prescribed medication and counselling. In theory, I realise I’m not responsible for your crimes, but I can’t get over the fact that surely I ought to have noticed something. Or that if I’d made even more trouble over the course of my life, fewer girls would probably have died. There’s no medication for that, nor the right words.
So you really are the ribbon murderer, Dad.
You killed ten girls and destroyed the lives of their loved ones.
You’re ‘Professor Death’.
And I’m your daughter. Ludwig says I shouldn’t be fixated on my belief that our parents determine the largest part of our identity. According to him, my identity is only who I– me, myself!– decide to be. I’m sure you know that I’m staying with him at the moment. He didn’t have to persuade me; I asked him. For one thing, now that the trial has started, our name has leaked out and journalists from all over the place are besieging our house. But also I don’t want to be alone. I’m clinging to the illusion of a family, even if Ludwig is only my godfather. But he’s there. As is Jakob, who hasn’t yet finished his reportage. He says he feels that nothing he puts to paper can even begin to capture the enormity of this story, and I say, ‘I know.’ ‘You’re not to blame, Ann,’ he adds, as well as a few other cute words that might reach my ears, but not my heart or soul.
And so I beg you, Dad, please talk. Finally make a confession. The trial begins tomorrow and the evidence, particularly the stone, will lead to your conviction. You’re guilty, there’s no doubt about this, and remaining silent won’t do you any favours, not for you. But you’d help the girls’ relatives to understand. And not just them, but me too. This is me we’re talking about, your little Beetle. Help me, Dad, please. I’m not going to come to the trial, but I promise to visit as soon as you’ve made your confession.
Ann
Berlin, 02 March 2018
Dad,
I still think of that moment when, sitting outside Nathalie’s house, it dawned on me that Zoe had my stone, whereas I’d been carrying a totally different one around for days. Recalling what Ludwig had said about the weapon. They were so set on their theory of it being a knife that when the house was searched, nobody gave the slightest thought to the brown-grey stone amongst all the other stuff in the wooden box in your desk. Things like this happen; after all, even the most dedicated police officers are human beings, who, like in Plato’s allegory, sit in a cave and stare at shadows.
I’ve done nothing different for twenty-four years either.
And I liked our cave, Dad. The shadows that were my reality. My shackles that I didn’t find tight and unbreakable, but more like a support. Our cave was my home and part of me will always miss it. I’ll miss you.
